


my paper heart will bleed

by sultrygoblin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Choking, Consensual Violence, F/M, Fluff, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24029974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sultrygoblin/pseuds/sultrygoblin
Summary: one shot - a girl likes bucky and doesn’t know how to tell him. this works too.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Kudos: 18





	my paper heart will bleed

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys so i wrote this a while back, it was just a blurb. i don’t think i’m ever going to get back to it unless i get a weird inspiration or one of ya’ll has an idea. i’m always taking suggestions guys and if i could i’d love to do more with this. so help me out if ya like.

The nightmares are the worst, they’re too far from his control. He’s got most of himself back but when he sleeps, it doesn’t feel that way. Things trickle in, things he’ll never truly forget, things he did regardless of what anyone tries to say. Even if it wasn’t him, it was his body, his eyes, and it would live with him. But the nightmares are too heavy a reminder. You’re never quite clear, just death. So much of it. He smells gun powder, feels blood on his hands, and no matter what he does he can’t stop. He screams, but his mouth never opens. He just keeps going, person after person, every face, and nothing comes out. Then Steve, how easily he could have finished him off. And what if he did?

“Bucky,” it’s not Steve, but it comes from his mouth, almost his voice, “You gotta wake up Bucky.”

It’s not Steve standing over him, it’s instinct. Metal meeting flesh and gripping hard, it’s a familiar choking sound, he’d heard it too many times tonight but for the first time, it sounds real. Not muffled by the cotton of subconsciousness. His head jerks, suddenly aware of the cold sweat he’s coated in. You take short even breaths in his grip, something you’ve unfortunately been forced to practice in the short time they’ve become friends. He tears his hand from your neck, trying to catch his breath, flashes of the dream not quite gone sprinting across his eyes.

“One of these days I’m really going to hurt you,” it’s not a joke, it’s a warning.

You rub your neck, trying to ease what will become new bruises over the old, “You were screaming again.”

“You only know that because you were checking on me,” soundproofing the room had been the first thing done, “Which I’m sure isn’t what Steve meant.”

“Were you there?” it’s the same argument every time, “Then you don’t know what Steve said.”

You take his water bottle from the bedside table, taking a few long gulps before returning it to its place, “Tea? Warm milk?”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you’re still getting an answer, “Warm milk.”

You nod, padding from the room, leaving him to his thoughts. You had built a rocky friendship with the world they all lived in. Something close enough to a friendship that he hated admitting this was part of theirs now. Just like the night before, when he had slapped you, things that made him feel so guilty, if only because he lived in the aftermath. You didn’t seem to care, he might think it was sick, but you said you made a promise, this was part of it, for now. You always said for now in a tone that made it sound like you knew something he didn’t. Some secret to putting the jack back in the box that you wouldn’t, or couldn’t, divulge quite yet. The problem with their friendship is it seemed mostly about times like this. In the silence, in the dark, where everything about him felt so raw. You step back in the room with a mug that just barely steams, holding it out to him. 

“You’ll have to drink it over there,” pointing to the chair in the corner with the other hand, “It is far past time to change your sheets.”

He can try to stare you down but he won’t win, you’ll stand there all night and all morning. More and more he wonders what Steve said to you, what he made your promise him. It’s part of the reason he listens. His friend must’ve known something about this woman and their friendship that he didn’t. Or just couldn’t see quite yet. He took the mug and climbed from the bed, riding a pillow of its case and taking it with him. It’s a small victory, but it’s his and he’ll take it. Until you throw it on the ground with the dirty blankets and other pillows. Opening his closet on the other side, the side he didn’t keep anything on because he barely had enough stuff to fill one side, pulling out what could only be described a bed set he had never known the existence of. That or it was a recent addition to the room.

There’s something soothing about sitting there, drinking something warm and soothing, watching you strip it all away and replace it with something pure. You’re cleaning up his mess and hoping they can both move on. It happened, but it didn’t have to ruin anything. That sounds like something his friend would’ve asked of you. By the time you’ve finished making it up, sheet tucked under the mattress, covers turned down, he’s setting the empty mug down on the windowsill. It seems unreasonably important to you that it’s all smoothed perfectly. A tiny bit of control in the chaos of it all.

“When do you sleep?” he asks, climbing to his feet, feeling a bit more confident in the waking world.

“When I can,” it’s the first time they’ve been alone this long outside a mission, “Just like you,” you never tend to stick around.

“I don’t choose that,” smiling as if he’s finally trapped you.

You grinned back, “Neither do I,” stepping around him to grab the mug, “Go to sleep, Bucky,” leaving him to the night.

He lays down, so confident he’ll be stuck awake, once again you take his feet out from under him. Between the warm milk and fresh sheets, he’s sleeping like a baby. It’s the first time in a long time he’s slept till noon. But he hadn’t had a nightmare. He was sure he had a dream, but he couldn’t remember it. Only that it was pleasant. It sort of stole the wind from his sails when he couldn’t find you to thank you, that he felt so much more like a person today than he had in a while. But he feels like that’s the point. You are not necessary in these moments, so why would you be here? Because he wants you to be. Everything seems to skitter away in your wake. What were you like when there was nothing to skitter?

{}

“You just have to catch me!” you’re laughing, ducking out of Sam’s reach, using the wall as leverage until you’re halfway soaring, landing on your feet across the room.

He’s spinning, trying to fake you out, you just jump, using his shoulders as little more than a running surface, “The taunting has got to stop.”

You jump again, using both your feet to push him forward into the ground, “The taunting’s the best part though,” planting a knee on each elbow, “It’s one of my top three favorite things.”

You’re different here, loud, sarcastic. You don’t look like someone who spent the night getting choked and picking up someone’s pieces, “I refuse to believe you like anything.”

You hop quickly to your feet, there are no bruises here, “It’s one of the top three things I don’t completely hate,” wearing one of those stylish wrap work out tops.

“That sounds more like it,” he moves to surprise you but you duck, his feet disappear from under him, “Normally I’m not unarmed.”

“But you will be sometimes,” foot on his throat.

You look nothing like the girl he sees at night, in your matching pajamas. This woman is dark, people like you but it’s a tenuous thing that you’re trying to hold on to, you just doesn’t have the skill.

“Do you ever take a break?”

You look across the gym, finding him looking at you, “Sometimes,” hauling your sparring partner back to his feet and returning your gaze to his, “In the dark of night.”

“I thought that’s when you lured children into your gingerbread cottage,” you laughed, stepping across the gym to find Bucky gone, like a flash

“There are shorter ways to call me a bitch, Sam,” he hissed, shaking his head, “It’s alright. I’ve made it my own.”

He can hear your laugh fading as he walks down the hall. It had been just as much for you as it had been for him. It’s hard to shake that feeling. That somehow it gave you some fulfillment. He’s discovering he doesn’t really know much about you, it’s not as if he told you very much about himself. What’s slipped out, what’s on file, what he no doubt screams at night, but not who he is. He could read a hundred different files about you but it wouldn’t have been able to teach him about your like those few seconds watching your spar.

“Hey,” it’s your voice, he turns, “If you wanna show off, you’re missing your chance.”

He shakes his head, “I’ll get my time with you, I’m not worried about that.”

You’re shiny with sweat when you stepped into the gym. He could hear Sam using some mocking tone on you but the words are garbled.

You don’t need each other right now. You’ve done your obligation of inviting him. But he’ll have his time. He spends the day being relaxed. Cooking himself some good food, reading a book, enjoying feeling like James Buchanan Barnes inside and out. Time moves quickly, it grows dark, and he thinks it’s a perfect time to take advantage of an empty training room. Except it’s not empty, in fact, it looks like you haven’t left. As if you sat down, began to think, and had lost yourself in that land between reality and memory. You’ve yanked the strap around your neck down, stroking the bruises with a familiarity that far surpasses the nightly visits. Teeth gnawing at your lip, the inside of your cheeks.

“You have nightmares while you’re awake,” you jerk suddenly, looking at him with wide eyes, “If they’re this bad when you’re awake how bad will it be when you fall asleep?” he crosses the floor, sitting slowly beside your, “But if you can make mine stop, maybe you can make yours stop too,” grabbing your wrist gently and pulling it from your neck, “I don’t think it works like that, doll.”

“It has to,” it’s the first time they’ve really talked about it all, about what’s happening in the gloom, “Something has to make you stop.”

“I’m sure something does but I don’t think it’s this,” he can’t help running his own fingers across the slightly swollen flesh, a painting of their strained relationship, “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“This is nothing,” shying away from his touch as if you suddenly realized it was there, “He told me that if I helped you, it would help me,” you slid away a bit and he slid right along with your, “I don’t know how to help someone. But for some reason you’re easy.”

He laughed, “Sure. I mean, if choking is your thing.”

“Don’t kink shame me,” you shot back, “I just promised him that I would try to …” shaking your head with a smile, “Well, he said some more stuff that was the kind of stuff he’d say.”

“So stickin’ his nose in it?” you nodded, “Sounds like him.”

“I’ll, uh,” you climbed to your feet, “Leave you alone. I’m sure you’re getting sick of seeing me.”

“Never could,” he called after you.

**Author's Note:**

> as always feedback is appreciated. and i am always taking ideas or requests.


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